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Too long.

That was how long Detraeus had spent on Soudul thus far. He had plenty to show for it, there was no arguing against that. A new pair of wings on his back, stronger and more capable every day. A stubborn and undisciplined tail attached to his spine, useful — if irritating at times and more active and prone to responding to his emotional shifts than he would have liked. And a sizeable stash of fresh dragon orbs to replace the ones he had gifted to Draco as a mark of his progress.

These things he valued, for their own worth, but the fact remained that he never intended to linger this long, and as he gathered more of his strength back more with every sun up and sun down, he grew ever more eager to head back to the shores of Eowyn. Restless and antsy, even. Little as he looked forward to the boat ride over, he missed the familiar heat and sand to at least some extent. He never realized, until leaving it, how accustomed he had grown to it. To the heat and the sun. The smells and the sand. The way sunsets bled over the horizon like glowing blood and how, amidst a smattering of travelers, tramps, thugs and thieves, he fit in like one more blade in an open armory.

Soudul would always be his birth continent, and the land of his goddess and all those born of her blood, but there was something warm, familiar, and ‘welcoming’ — in an obscure sense — about Eowyn, and that made him loathe to leave it for long. But he rallied his patience — a talent of his, when he applied it — and had given himself, his body in particular, two more days of wait and ‘rest’ on Soudul before heading out. In the meantime, he kept himself busy.

Detraeus thumbed over the shaft of the arrow in his hand, squinting and eyeing the cut of the feathers at its base before lifting a small cutting knife and pulling it from its sheath. With it, he sliced carefully away at the feather’s edges, keeping close track of his measurements and making sure to keep the length, cut, and angle balanced for accuracy. His time on Soudul thus far, particularly after his first few days of healing from and accustoming himself to the initial growth, had been spent largely in the forests and fungal swamp land. Not because he especially needed to hunt more, but because hunting gave him reprieve for his restlessness, something to do, and a distraction from the rest of his thoughts.

It also meant he needed more arrows.

So, craft he did. Unfortunately, unlike hunting, arrow making was not as mentally consuming, and left room between the minutes, hours, of work for his mind to wander. Sometimes, the issue was not so much a burden. He would think of Malta, the strange khehora with all the nerve of a willow wisp in a winter storm and ask himself, again, why she had bothered to help him. Why she had stayed when clearly a falling pebble could frighten her, and he had been easily on her list of things to be intimidated by.

He would think of Martrae’a and wonder how she faired these days, if she had gotten his note, if it was legible, if she cared. If he would ever see her again, and if so, under what circumstances. He would think of Draco and his orders, and Casseth and their strange friendship. Of Kilian and the debt he still intended to repay, one day.

But then, more than he would ever like to admit, his thoughts would stray, and he would think of Araceli. His thoughts would remind him of the last time they spent together. Of the strange — frightening, exhilarating, confusing, warm — feeling of her body pressed against his chest. And then he would shut his eyes and scowl and shove the thoughts away. Or try. To his great displeasure, such thoughts, specifically in regards to her, tended to linger, stubbornly, and return again and again, no matter how many times he ushered them away.

He thought of the way she had looked in battle, in the dragon cave. The way her hair had lifted around her as though weightless under the control of the wind and her body had flit about like darter fae in the wind: agile, fierce, and precise. At home in her element. He thought of the range of emotions he’d seen in her: anger, fear, sadness, happiness, confusion, hope, and then some. Of how she had looked in that dress she had chosen for the festival dance before their last parting with a flush to her cheeks and a smile and glisten on her lips. How soft she had felt, all over, when she’d pushed close to him and—

Detraeus grit his teeth, cheeks burning as he snorted and moved to lift a new arrow to focus on. It occurred to him that thinking of her seemed to cycle with his crafting patterns, that the first time he had ever dedicated an extensive stretch of thought to her — before he had even known her name — he had spent the time clacking away at flint and crafting arrow head. So rough he’d been at the time, Martrae’a had had to pull him aside and call him out on wasting her materials to vent his frustrations. He’d said, then, that he ought to have let her die by arvathi.

It all seemed such a long time ago now. Another lifetime, though it couldn’t have been over a year with him still only on his eighteenth cycle — surely approaching his nineteenth in short order, now, but nevertheless…

He shook his head. He was old enough to recognize, on some level, the logical reasons for his preoccupation with her. She was attractive. Anyone would have to admit that, and he couldn’t even see her in full color to appreciate all the detail. So there, he couldn’t argue. But his issue wasn’t a matter of her physical appeal or lack thereof, but the fact that he had never considered himself particularly — or even remotely — concerned with such things in the slightest. He didn’t care for beauty one way or another. Prettiness begged the world to soil it, break it, steal it, and there were far more valuable traits, besides. Independence. Self-sufficiency. Strength. Intelligence. Determination.

He also never intended to take on any form of romantic partner. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t for a number of reasons, not least of which that he hardly expected anyone would want to cope with him to begin with. But more importantly, he would never lie with a woman. Never lie with anyone again ever.

Even the thought of it made him nauseous and anxious, panic nipping at the edges of his mind. No. It would never happen. He couldn’t make it happen and never wanted to try. His body had its own stubborn, basic needs, but he could tend to those himself with as little frequency as his biology allowed without causing himself pain and that was enough.

His mind had no business preoccupying itself with Araceli because he had no business with Araceli, period. She represented a slew of things all entirely out of his reach. Beauty. Happiness. Romance. Peace, and stability.

If — if — he ever formulated any variety of long-term relationship with anyone that somehow swayed out of the bounds of strictly platonic without ever verging into the sexual, it would be a convenience-based arrangement. Nothing to do with prettiness or whimsical ideas of romance, but a balance between their two characters. Someone who fit him. Could keep up with him in battle — challenge him, even — and balance out his strengths and weaknesses with their own. Someone intelligent, but capable, who — for some obscure reason — wanted his company but did not need it by way of dependence.

Detraeus frowned, lips pursed as he thought on it, and then set the next arrow aside. Nevermind that Araceli was many of those things, in his experience. Not matter what she might be to him he was nothing that she needed, and he knew it well. Whatever she might think she saw in him to inspire her to keep his company, ask him dancing, and hold herself that close to him, she would eventually, inevitably, be sorely disappointed. She was the wind, and he would never catch her between his fingers. One day, she would want a man who knew how to hold her without panicking. Understood how to kiss her and savor the moment appropriately, touch her and not shake, take her to bed with him and—

Detraeus grit his teeth, snarling and setting his things immediately aside as he stood. He shoved the train of thought far, far away, as forcibly as his mind could manage. Pointless. Useless. Ridiculous train of thought. He hadn’t even been interested in her. Why was he now upsetting himself over it? Still scowling, he dropped his newest finished arrows into his quiver, strapped it into place, and yanked the rest of his weapon belts — those not already on him — to him before grabbing his bow and standing.

Thinking on this anymore was pointless, and he needed a distraction. So, he started off into the forest, in specific search of something large, dangerous, and interesting. The more exciting, the better.

Detraeus wasn’t entirely certain what he expected — or hoped — to find. Dragons were of enough abundance to perhaps hope for one or a small cluster. They had the advantage of providing valuable orbs which helped him in his monetary pursuits, but most dragons save for diabi were no longer much of a challenge. Dangerous still, certainly, but not nearly the level of excitement they once were. Diabis frequented Soudul, however, which made it an ideal testing grounds for his training while he waited to make his return trip, and it couldn’t be said that there weren’t a good number of other challenges also lurking in the dark continents murky woods and swamp banks.

Of all the things he might have anticipated, however, he got something entirely different. Perhaps an hour or so into his exploring, the distant sound of commotion among the fungal trees alerted him to something approaching. A predator and its prey, likely, from the sound of rapid scrambling and pursuit. Something decently large, though not a dragon, for it seemed to be approaching on the ground level of the forest. He thumbed over the base of his arrow, already nocked and held at the ready, eyes narrowed on the the dark brush ahead and body loose, but wary. He came within a half second of firing on the first thing to break through the brush, and noticed — not but a moment too soon — that it was not predator or any ‘prey’ that he would hunt, but an infant khehora. Orakoi still, and familiar, if his memory served him, which it usually did.

Upon spotting him, the young orakoi gave a sharp trill of panic, darting along her path, past him, and then on to disappear into the brush behind him. Not but a few seconds after, her pursuer became evident breaking through through the brush, sharp, pointed spider-like feet piercing the soft earth in its wake and undulating, highly-toothed mouth looking ready to shred anything foolish enough to step near to it. Familiar with such beasts by now — thanks to a none-too pleasant and fairly experience at that — Detraeus grimaced, drew back his arrow to a tight pull and released. Again. And again. One arrow into each of its ‘mouths’ and then several others in the nooks between its exoskeleton armor until the beast was scrabbling at the earth and staggering about like a drunken arachnid before toppling over as it died and twitching with a sputtered hiss.

Detraeus held himself at the ready for several more extended seconds, not about to be tricked into letting his guard down prematurely, and only after a long wait of complete stillness snorted and lowered his bow. Ignoring his kill for the moment, he turned to the quivering brush at his back and knelt carefully, speaking in soft words. “It’s dead, little thing. You’ve nothing to fear.”

Detraeus blinked, tensing briefly at the unexpected ‘facial assault’, but as it became immediately clear that the actions were friendly, he relaxed again, tilting his head with an amused half smile as he drew his fingers down in a gentle pet along the scales of her snout. “Come now,” he said, keeping his volume down still so as not to startle her, “I’m sure you could have taken it on all yourself if you’d wanted, mm? Though sitting back to let me have the glory was very kind of you…perhaps we should find your parents.”

After disentangling himself from her gently, he stood, tail flicking and wings stretching in thought as he eyed the surrounding woods.

“You do have quite a taste for adventure, so often away from your nest.”

Detraeus blinked, glancing down in surprise at the unexpected push of contact between his legs. At the sight of the little orakoi, however, he relaxed a fraction, shaking his head. Clicking his tongue, he motioned his head sidelong and stepped over the little one’s head, starting off in the direction of her tracks. “If we’re lucky,” he said, eyeing the surrounding forests and then the imprints she’d made in her own galloping along, “I remember more or less where your nest is…let’s hope for the both of us that my memory serves. Come along…”

Whether or not the infant khehora understood his words, she seemed eager enough to follow him as Detraeus moved through the forests. She hopped, pouncing on the occasional bug but, for the most part, stayed diligently close to him. A side result, perhaps, of having just encountered something much larger than herself and significantly more vicious.

As circumstances had it, however, fate did not seem entirely in their favor. They made it a decent ways without incident, but the path grew muddled some way through, and in a clearing, as Detraeus stooped to examine the path of her tracks more closely, the sounds of the forest began to quiet. First the night birds, then the critters, then the insects, all in an eerie domino effect of sound dribbling away as though a blanket were muffling it all.

Detraeus knew the pattern all too well, and immediately moved to stand, withdrawing back towards the little khehora and standing over her. Anything large and fierce enough to quiet an entire forest could only be a dragon in his experience, and he need be ready, if he intended to emerge alive with his unexpected ‘charge’ intact.

Never the type to disappoint, half a minute later, a small flock of diabi dragons emerged above the treeline — dark shadows against a sky lit well by stars and the moon, like black mercenaries of the realms of beasts. Detraeus felt his blood cool in his veins, all too aware of what diabi magic could do to a living body, but he fingered over his arrows anyway, sliding a single shot from his quiver and nocking it into his bow. He had no intentions of dying unprepared. Not tonight.

“Go.”

He tilted his head towards the nearest cluster of larger, blossoming fungi which might provide the little khehora with much needed shelter. He knew her far too young to be of aid in battle, and the last thing he wanted was to see her hurt or — perhaps worse — distract him into taking extreme action to aid her which wound up with both of them killed. The last khehora he had dealings with — while significantly larger than this little one — at least knew the basics of running for cover, if not fighting in the least. As the situation stood at present, there would be no fleeing from the beasts, or certainly not for the two of them, and Detraeus knew of the two of them, since one needed to stand their ground, the responsibility was left to him.

Attention on the sky, he rolled his shoulders, adding a fraction of tension to his string as he weighed the odds. At least, he consoled himself, he would return ‘home’ with a healthy pile of the most valuable dragon souls to be had.

‘If you return home.’

Narrowing his eyes and steadying his draw, he waited until the first dragon lunged, plummeting for the earth and diving directly for him. He fired.

The battle seemed to drag on for an age, and then another after that. The dragons came in droves, and while he used the landscape to his advantage — as he had the last time he found himself faced with a multitude of opponents at once — the sheer number still wore down on him. His muscles began to ache, his body tiring gradually as he worked from the fifth, to the sixth, and on. By the time it came to facing off against the last three, Detraeus was all too aware that the lead up had slowed him down. His lungs needed air. His body needed rest. And, practically inevitable when facing off against such a full string of the massive beasts, he had already sustained a number of minor injuries.

The seventh went down with great struggle, and when one of the remaining two caught him in a binding spell of dark magic, Detraeus began to — again — weigh the sliding scale of his odds. For what likely amounted to only a span of a few moments, but felt like half a lifetime crushed into that space, he felt nothing but the choking, burning, overwhelming sensation of being absolutely helpless. Then, as most miracles tended to come, another dragon’s call rippled over the canopy. In the moment of its occurance, Detraeus barely registered it.

More dragons.

He was already helpless, what did he have left to fear?

Instead, however, in the immediately proceeding moments, the grip on him deminished. Detraeus felt his knees bend and his lungs gasp. Dragon roars echoed overhead, the sounds seeming distant and surreal to his distracted senses. A hoard calling their fellows back into line? A rivaling group challenging those at hand?

Whatever the case, the instant he could convince his legs to do so, Detraeus scrambled back, watching in near disbelief as the remaining two dragons lifted into the sky, screetching and squabbling with a group of three others before flying off entirely. Still shaken, but vertical at the very least, Detraeus winced, assessed his wounds, and then began gathering the fallen orbs of those that did become prey to his arrows.

As he did, he scanned the surrounding area, looking — and hoping — to see evidence of the infant khehora who’d kept him company at the battle’s outset. He realized that he did not yet know her name.